


Possession

by LittleDarkling



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blasphemy, Dubious Consent, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-11 13:10:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20546702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleDarkling/pseuds/LittleDarkling
Summary: Summary: When the world ends, whatever Castiel wants, Castiel gets (Have I mentioned I’m useless at summaries? I’m useless at summaries.)





	Possession

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Characters belong to Kripke and co. This is a work of fan love. No infringement intended and no profit made. 
> 
> Spoilers: Season 4 to 6, I think
> 
> A/N: I’ve had this sitting on my computer for ages. Wrote it toward the end of season five and kind of forgot about it. 
> 
> Warnings: Religious imagery, blasphemy, dub-con/non-con, themes that are kind of a downer. If any of that upsets you, DO NOT read on

There were towns and cities here once, small rural communities and urban sprawls. There were trails carved into the hills for hikers and explorers, but more often used by men who trafficked in illegal substances, weapons and humans. It is all buried now. The trails and the cities, along with a great deal of their populations, all returned to the desert. Dust to dust, as they say.

Beyond the rust-colored cliffs, the Sonoran lies quiet. A starving rattlesnake slithers somewhere in the parched grasses, scaly body scrapping across the rough ground. It no longer recognizes its world, devoid of moisture and prey. Castiel is aware of all of it now. He can hear the faintest rustle of the sparse, dry vegetation on the desert floor. He knows the scent of fading moisture in the cacti, the baking heat on the snake’s emaciated form. He can feel how it hungers.

None of this distracts him from what exists within the stone walls of his citadel. A droplet of sweat sliding down the side of the young hunter’s face, catching on day-old stubble. He can taste it on the tip of his tongue, salt and dirt. Sweat-dampened silk clings like a second skin. The glide of the soft, sleek fabric against flesh as it moves around the fragile human form, a tender embrace.

The pliable, but indestructible silver shackles, wreathed in ancient runes, clink together softly. He is waking. Castiel closes his eyes as the first tendrils of consciousness slip forth. A name born in the hunter’s mind, heard before it passes his lips. _Sammy_.

Sometimes the heat makes him think of Hell. The Morningstar’s Hell. Lucifer’s Hell. Long before Man walked upright from the wilds, there was Lucifer. The first son. The favorite son. Castiel was never a favorite. A middle child amongst thousands. Then there was the War that tore Heaven in two. And the Fall. Lucifer’s hubris condemned him to Hell. The prodigal son, never to return, never to be forgiven.

There was a new Favored. These creatures that scuttled from the darkness of the oceans. They crawled, then walked on all fours, then rose to two feet. They were strange and violent and beautiful. They were the favorite, and Lucifer—ever the vengeful brat—became the dreaded shadow that haunted their light.

They were such flawed beings, and it was easy to turn their hearts. A whispered word about a neighboring kingdom’s power, and they went to war. A pretty serving girl unfortunate enough to catch their eye and they would take by force what was not given freely. The glint of a gold ring on a nobleman’s hand and they sought to cut off the finger…or the head. Appeal to their pride, their bigotry, their lust and their greed, and you could bring down empires. Lucifer was the unnamable fear they prayed for protection from and the voice they used to justify their wickedness.

Castiel watched over them, fascinated, but indifferent. They were his charges, nothing more. Some lived because that was the Father’s will. Others died, because even gods could be apathetic. Castiel had his orders. He knew his place in the great scheme of god’s plan and he had had no doubts. Until he met Dean Winchester.

There is a brief flair of panic from the figure nestled in the sheets. It is always this way, when he first wakes. Always the brief thought—the hope—that all this is no more than a dream. It disappoints Castiel. Though not as much as the feelings of resentment and thoughts of treachery that follow. The way Dean’s eyes methodically scan the room behind Castiel’s back, always looking for an opening. It’s been two years and still Dean thinks of little more than escape.

“Cass?” His voice is roughened with sleep, but softer than it used to be, without the constant flow of alcohol to abrade it. Castiel does not turn away from the window.

“Are you hungry, Dean?” He can hear the moment that lean, muscular body shifts, rising as far as the shackles will allow.

“Please. I just…I just want to see them. Know they’re ok.”

“I would not harm them,” he murmurs. He hears the word without it being spoken. _Liar_. He turns his head slightly. “I am not lying to you.”

“Get out of my head.” It is an order, hard and fierce. Castiel smiles slightly. He has annihilated a multitude of others for the very same insolence, but this defiance he treasures. He feeds on the sparks of anger and contempt, because underlying it even now, there is love. Twisted and crushed, like a scrap of paper clutched in a fist, but still there. And as long as it exists, there remains a chance for forgiveness. It is all he really needs.

He presses his palm to the glass, brushes his fingers along the cool pane, simultaneously brushing Dean’s plump bottom lip. This is the only way he can touch Dean for extended periods now. A human’s body is far too fragile to bear such direct contact. It matters little. Castiel has passed beyond the need for physical contact. He can crawl inside Dean’s flesh if he desires, fill every pore, every vein and cell.

“Don’t,” Dean says, turning his head away from the incorporeal touch.

“But I want this,” he replies. “_You_ want this, Dean.”

“I want you to let me help you,” he replies, dodging another attempt at contact.

“I do not need help.” Castiel’s eyes flutter and he pins the hunter against the silk sheets.

“Fuck! Cass, knock it off…” The objection ends in a gasp as Castiel’s lips brush the edge of his jaw. He curls his tongue into the hollow of Dean’s throat. He moans, a soft, fragile sound. “Stop!” Castiel’s teeth scrape his collarbone, hands brushing languidly over his torso.

“That is not what you want,” he murmurs softly. Dean tugs hard at the shackles, twisting his body, trying to throw off the phantom grip. Stubborn boy.

“Cass!” Beautiful. Vulnerable. He watches Dean’s body move against the sheets. The struggle pushes the fabric down further, leaving him naked and exposed. The imperfect, scarred flesh of his body, slender legs, half-hard cock resting against his thigh. Castiel traces over the scars. So many. Some small and barely visible, others roughed over with a messy build of tissue.

He could remove them. He could take these old wounds, erase the past from his flesh and leave the young hunter’s body as unmarked and pure as the day he came into the world. But he prefers Dean just like this, an open book to his eyes, the story of his remarkable life etched into the skin.

It is an exquisite, broken sound that tears from Dean’s throat when warm, wet heat surrounds his nipple. Slow, teasing suction. The taste of Dean’s flesh is sweet, faintly bitter, intoxicating and potent. He arches beautifully when Castiel’s teeth scrape the tender, abused bud, trapping a cry behind tightly clenched teeth.

He touches Dean’s face, slides a thumb between his lips. The hunter grunts and bites down hard, his teeth grinding together on nothing. It is of no consequence, but if it is a reaction he seeks, then Castiel is willing to indulge him. Dean seems unsurprised and triumphant to feel the fingers curl into his hair, tugging his head back in warning.

“What, you fucker? What are you gonna do, huh?” In Dean’s mind there is blood and flame. His body burning under Castiel’s hand, blood spraying outward in a glorious scarlet arch. A gaping wound in his throat like a broad, red smile. Castiel watches Dean’s reflection carefully in the window.

“Haven’t you learned yet? I have no desire to harm you.” There is heat and frustration and longing in Dean’s eyes, the body warring with the mind. Castiel presses a soft kiss to his ribs, sucks gently at the soft skin. Beneath the flesh, carved into the bone, is the symbol of protection he placed upon the Winchesters in a past where Castiel was still an angel and they were still allies.

He can taste the tang of blood under the skin, the movement of it, flowing through each vein. His hands smooth up the length of Dean’s thighs, teasing the tender skin with the gentlest of touches. He presses another kiss to Dean’s chest, over his heart as he curls his fingers around the length of his cock. He is discovering that even in anger, mortal men are easily ruled by their bodies’ desires. Dean goes pliant against the sheets and a sobbing breath tears from his throat. His cock pulses in Castiel’s hand and his hips buck upward.

“You bastard. You motherfucking bast—” Castiel silences the blasphemy with a kiss.

Dean was unrefined, not pure or chaste. On the contrary, he was well-acquainted with sin. He cursed, drank and fornicated. But he was brave and he was loyal to a fault. He loved with an intensity that made Castiel’s skin burn.

Castiel had watched as he formed within his mother’s body, watched his birth. He watched Dean the child, Dean the older brother, the protector, the hunter and the man. So pathetically fragile, so easily broken. He watched the beauty of Dean’s innocence tarnish. It is the hunter’s life; Dean had blood on his hands before he was old enough to understand what Death really was.

Yet, to Castiel’s eyes, it was these trials that set him above ordinary men. More and more, Castiel had wanted to shelter him, to place him where pain and the passing of time could never touch him. He was slightly aghast to discover he could feel anything for such an imperfect creature, but he smiled when Dean was happy and felt his own heart break when Dean grieved.

Then Dean was cast into Hell and Castiel wept. He returned to Heaven broken, lost. But it was not for long. He was handed orders to pull Dean from Perdition. And in doing, he left his mark, his brand, bright red upon the young human’s flesh. He no longer watched from afar, but communicated with him as he had communicated only with other angels in the past. Dean was different from them in obvious ways, bumbling and sometimes downright illogical. He was very bewildering; he said and did things that Castiel simply did not understand.

Castiel’s confusion seemed only to vex or amuse him. Dean taught him about the mortal world, showed him its strange pleasures and small wonders. The most valuable of these lessons was choice. Fate could be changed with a choice. Castiel had gone eons never realizing he lived in bondage until he met Dean Winchester. And it was because of Dean that he cast off those chains.

He called Dean ‘friend’, when in Heaven, such a thing was not even considered. Humans were little more than shaven apes, vessels. They were meat, living and breathing only by the Father’s will. But Castiel saw more. He had fought in the War; he had seen angels who did not fight with such passion and courage as Dean did. That this man called him ‘friend’, filled him with a sense of honor.

Perhaps, in the end, all this was because he allowed too much of Dean’s flawed humanity into himself. Slowly, he found himself desirous of Dean’s words, his dreams, the scent of his skin, the taste of each breath. He hadn’t known then that this was lust born of…love.

Castiel loved him as he loved the Father. He disobeyed orders for Dean, abandoned his place in Heaven, turned traitor, killed his own for Dean. He died and was reborn for him. It was only after he took his new throne that he realized he had been wrong.

He did not love Dean as he loved the Father; he loved this human far more. In weaker moments he thinks that Lucifer, his big brother, would have been proud. For in his love, Castiel’s fall surpassed his own.

The shackles shiver and tremble as Dean struggles against his desires. Castiel turns from the window to watch. He slides a hand over Dean’s chest, thumbing lightly at his nipples as he strokes him. The invisible weight of his body settles over Dean’s, pinning that lean, strong body beneath his. Dean groans, deep and guttural. And Castiel can touch him…everywhere.

He slides his hands over the length of Dean’s legs, strokes that soft spot at the back of his knees and suck bruises into his throat. He sinks his teeth into the sensitive meat of Dean’s inner thigh and the young man keens helplessly. The indent will mark the flesh for days. Now bright pink, soon to turn faintly blue and black.

“I hate you…” The words are spoken, soft and broken to the air. Castiel can feel them against his cheek.

“You do not,” he replies, turning his head slightly.

“Go to Hell.” The bitter curse is born upon a weak, trembling breath as Castiel presses a tender kiss to the bridge of his nose.

“You are beautiful,” he says softly.

“I don’t want this!” Dean yells in frustration, tugging at his restraints.

“You’re lying, Dean,” Castiel replies gently, trailing fingers over the tender skin where thigh meets groin and he is pleased when Dean’s legs fall open. Unconscious obedience.

Two years, six days and fourteen hours ago, Castiel took Dean from a motel in Boston. They’d been searching for him for several weeks while around them the world they knew fell to panic and ruin. Castiel had never really left them. He’d lingered with them, silently watching, leaving only to seek out another of Raphael’s followers. It had been during one of these periodic partings that Dean had been injured.

He had found Dean feverish and weak. Castiel could feel Death at the door, could smell it. Ash and rot. Castiel didn’t need to reveal his presence to heal Dean. That he could do with a thought. Heal the sick. Awaken the dead. Take a life.

Sam was out buying more medical necessities, and Bobby, Castiel had put into a gentle but deep sleep. He’d stood over Dean’s bed, watched the rise and fall of his chest, each labored breath. His skin had been flushed bright and Castiel could see the disease eating at the delicate intricacy of organs and vessels that made up the human body. He wondered briefly at the flimsiness of the Father’s design. It seemed so…wasteful, to put so much work into something so easily ruined.

Even if Dean survived this, he would succumb eventually. If it was not the hunt or his penchant for hard liquor, then it would be old age. Time itself would gnaw his muscles and bones, leave him nothing more than a sack of flesh, rotting from within. Castiel passed his hand over the young man’s forehead, consumed the sickness from the blood. Dean hadn’t woken—Castiel had not wanted a scene—but his breathing evened and the fever-flush left his skin.

Bobby and Sam have been frantically searching for Dean since that night, but there is no sign for them to find, no evidence and Castiel has been careful to keep no confidant who can betray his location. Not that it matters. There is no power on Earth, none in Heaven or Hell who can challenge him. But he has no intention of harming Sam or Bobby, because Dean loves them. The love is there now, mingled with worry. He hears Dean’s thoughts, his concern for them. They are safe, Castiel has made sure of it, but that seems to do little to dissuade Dean’s fear.

Castiel loves those who Dean loves and he will protect them with the same ferocity. He knows it will take time for Dean to see this, to have faith. It will take time, but Castiel is patient and he has all the time in the world to wait for his hunter to come to him.

He runs his fingernails down the ridge of his Dean’s spine and smiles when the young man squirms. He reaches the gentle dip just above the firm swell of Dean’s buttocks and pauses. The hunter’s breath shivers from his lungs in rapid, uneven gasps.

“Cass, fucking please…” His hips jerk violently when Castiel’s fingers push inside. Hard and blunt, rougher than pleases Castiel, but Dean’s pleasure is more important than his own. And Dean moans brokenly, pressing his cheek against the pillow.

“Damn…” he rasps. Castiel licks the graceful line of his throat. The taste of his sweat like the taste of his blood, sweetness and salt. He curls his fingers and Dean’s back arches, a throaty cry echoing against the stone walls. So thin is the boundary between the pleasures of this world and its agonies. Sometimes the same.

And Dean is as broken and beautiful in passion as he is in suffering. Castiel thrusts his fingers deeper. He feels more than hears the moan that Dean tries to bite back. It’s easy to push past the resistance of Dean’s lips to force that precious sound into the open. _Do not hide your pleasure_.

“Fuck you,” the young hunter breathes raggedly. Castiel twists his hand in the way he knows Dean’s body desires, and is well rewarded. Dean slams his head back against the pillows, the shackles rattling loudly as his body convulses. A spasm of helpless pleasure.

In the end, the human body is simply a series of sensitive nerves that can be plucked and played like the strings of the finest instrument, to draw forth the sweetest moans or the most horrific screams. When Castiel kisses him, stroking him from within, the last vestiges of Dean’s resistance fold with a shattered moan and a whispered, ‘Oh, god, please.’ He draws in a wet breath and grinds down, working himself on Castiel’s fingers.

The panting breaths of the young man stretched across sweat-drenched sheets are deafening in the near silence. The scent of arousal makes his nostrils flair. Dean’s shudders, fingers clenching in the bed clothes. Castiel watches, feeds on the flow of energy, the mingling of pleasure and pain.

Dean’s heart beats wildly. Castiel can touch the surface of it and feel the violent pulsing of the fragile organ. His hunter is stunning like this, so lost to his pleasure that he will do anything, will offer Castiel his body, his soul, if only he would be allowed release. Hearing Dean beg is a special delight. His fingers curl deep inside and Dean sobs, hips pushing upward.

“Cass!” he gasps. “Please!” Castiel lets himself sink into Dean’s mind. The razor’s edge of orgasm, not yet strayed over. Everything, time, thought, awareness, all frozen in a paroxysm of terrible, overwhelming pleasure just before the fall.

This is his Eden, his paradise. Pleasure and pain, love and hate, resistance and submission.

When Dean comes, it is a beautiful, destructive collision within Castiel’s mind. He can taste the bitter sweet spill of Dean’s seed on his tongue and feel what it is to drown under the surfeit of such intense pleasure. A luminous, glorious moment when all things cease to exist, save this. This sweetest of sins, for which even angels fall. Castiel is slow to withdraw his touch, soothing Dean as the pleasure begins to fade.

He strides across the room. Dean’s chest rises and falls with his panting breaths, his skin slick and flushed bright pink. His eyes are half-closed. Castiel bends over him and kisses Dean’s lips, drinks the soft moan that rumbles from his throat. So soft a touch, careful. A brief contact. Too long and this fragile skin will bruise and tear.

“You have pleased me,” he murmurs. “Thank you.” Dean blinks, the brief high of orgasm too quickly slipping away.

“Cass. Let me go. Please. You have to let me go.” Castiel strokes his flushed cheek lightly. Dean is so feverish and Castiel is so cold. When the war ends, Heaven’s light shall shine upon a new age. Castiel is God and Dean will be his. Always. Eternal. Until the end of time.

“I have ordered a meal prepared for you. One of the servants will bring it in,” he says quietly as he straightens.

“Wait. Please. Listen to me. You don’t have to do this anymore.” Dean pleads. “Just listen to me. I can help you.”

“I shall return shortly,” Castiel replies, indulging in one more fleeting touch before drawing away. The shackles rattle as the hunter twists around, trying to catch his hand, but failing.

“Wait! Castiel!” Dean’s frantic shouts echo through the empty hall as Castiel departs.

End


End file.
